Thursday, September 4, 2014

My Affirmative Action Program

In
the wake of events in Ferguson, I’ve had many discussions with folks about race
and often come away saddened by the quick, self-satisfied judgments I hear
white folks make. I’m not saying that everything coming from the African
American community sounds entirely rational either, but I’m not immersed in
their world, I’m immersed in mine, and it’s mostly white. I’ll speak to what I
know. It’s an American history that for some reason, some of my peers never
think to apply to their own success and comfort.

I’ll
call this history, “My Affirmative Action Program.”

My
grandfather Meyer grew up in a poor German-speaking farming family in northern
Indiana in the early 20th Century. He went to school with his German
heritage in tact. In fact, though all 12 of his siblings were born in America,
they didn’t bother speaking English until they went to school – good schools by
international standards at that time. As a young man he took that work ethic
and education to the nearest small town, married my grandmother and got a job
at the post office. It was a good gig for the 1920s.

I
imagine the African American version of my grandfather. That man’s grandparents
were slaves. His ancestor’s culture, religion, language were all beaten
out of the generations that led up to him. And if he had a school, it likely
wasn’t as good as the one-room schoolhouse my grandfather had. He too probably
grew up in hard circumstances, but there was no post office job for him. Though
he might have been a janitor at a post office making a fraction of what my
white grandfather earned.

I
once interviewed a local African American woman whose husband was the rarest of
1930s black men. He got a degree in chemistry at IU. After graduation he
applied for a job at Eli Lilly. But he was told, “The only job we’ve got for
you involves a broom and a mop.”

My
grandfather wasn’t ambitious enough to get a degree at IU, but he qualified for
a better job than his black IU peer. That IU chemistry grad never used his
degree.

My
grandfather learned that if you work hard and play by the rules, you’ll be
rewarded. What did the black IU grad learn? I’m guessing he didn’t
learn the same lesson from his experiences that my grandfather learned from
his. He might have learned a bitterness that white people couldn’t understand.

When
my grandparents’ two sons went to school, my grandmother got a job as a secretary. They bought a house in the 1930s and built equity with each
payment. As they approached retirement, they built a new house and paid cash.

My
grandparents were good, hardworking people. There’s nothing in the rewards of
their hard work to apologize for.

My
grandparents’ sons went to good white schools in an all white small town and
both my father and his brother then went to Purdue and got engineering degrees
in the 1950s.

Jim
Crow laws were still in affect. It didn’t just keep the black versions of my
father and uncle from white lunch counters and front rows in the bus, it kept them segregated
in poorly funded schools. Few made it to college. I wonder how many blacks were
at Purdue getting engineering degrees in the 1950s. The degrees weren’t handed
out like candy. My dad and my uncle, worked hard, they struggled, but they did
it with an opportunity that was systematically kept from their black
counterparts. Their black counterparts likely lived with a bitterness that
white people couldn’t understand.

Yet,
there is nothing about the college degrees that my dad or uncle need apologize
for.

In
my little Indiana hometown in the 1960s and ‘70s I went to safe, nurturing schools. I was blessed. I was born white and middle class in
1960 in an all-white town, attended an all-white school, and learned along side
kids whose families had not-so-different backgrounds from mine. I say "blessed" because these were places with the best resources, where the spoils of earlier
generations were concentrated so that even if you were white, poor, and
uneducated, there were radiating waves of economic activity that provided you with a good job. And because you were white, you and your children were welcome
to climb a ladder not so easily available to those of the wrong color.

My
dad’s engineering job put me in a big house on a nice street with virtually
zero-crime. And there was enough money to send my mom to night school and summer classes. She got a teaching degree and eventually a teaching job.

Though
I didn’t try very hard in high school, I still got into college. I wonder how
many of my African American counterparts could say they day-dreamed their way
through high school and still got into college in the 1970s. I grew up watching
black people on TV behave with a bitterness I couldn’t understand.

As
a young man my grandmother sent me money every Christmas – first $100, and
eventually a $1,000 each year. I once bought a trip to Europe with that cash.
Later I used the money to pay for the raising of children. I would eventually
build a career for myself as a small-business person, working, literally, sometimes
seven days a week, earning every single paycheck. I still do.

There’s
nothing in my success to apologize for. But
I had a leg up. Over and over again.

Fast-forward
to the year I turned 40. After my grandmother died a check arrived in my
mailbox for $60,000. The only thing I did to earn that was to have the right
DNA. It was my cut of the estates of a frugal postal worker
andsecretary. I’m not sorry I got
it. I’m proud of my family heritage. But I’m Christian-enough to wonder about my
African American counterpart – the grandson of the man who couldn’t get a post
office job in the 1920s because his skin was black – the son of a man who
didn’t go to college in the 1950s like my dad did because his skin was black
and his own dad didn't get the post office job – and so as a result, he’s the same guy who didn’t
get annual Christmas checks and then a big one for $60,000 like I did.

I
invested that money in my home and my kids’ college funds.

Two
of my kids have graduated college – the youngest is still in college. They have
no apologies to make for their opportunities. But are they
encountering black peers who grew up with a bitterness that is hard for them to
understand?

I’m
gonna guess yes.

It’s
over 100 years since my grandparents were born into a country where being white
meant unlimited possibilities if you were wiling to work hard, and being born black meant 2nd class status and limited opportunities, no matter how hard you worked . . . and then you were judged deficient for all the things you didn't accomplish. The money my grandparents earned in their privileged position is
still at play in the lives of their grandchildren and great grandchildren – giving us an
affirmative action program that wasn't available to everybody.

To
this very day, research shows that black students are more likely to be
expelled than white children for the same infractions. Reviews of arrests and
sentencing records show the exact same disparity in our criminal justice
system. Current research also shows that blacks who apply for jobs, home loans,
and apartments are more likely to be rejected than their white counterparts
with equal education and employment records. My black friends tell me, “If you
think racism isn’t alive and well in America, you’re a fool.” It is a common
feature of their lives. But it’s not out in the open anymore, it’s gone
underground.

I’m
not asking for any new law nor a new government
program to fix this disparity. I’m simply asking my peers to stop callously judging
struggling African American communities with questions like, “What’s wrong with
those people?” or, “Why are so many of them in jail?” or “Why are they so
angry? You can get ahead if you’ll just work hard and act right.”

I
want my peers to think about their own family history and acknowledge the
privileged shoulders of those they stood on to grab the success they found in
life. I want them to be a little less self-satisfied and certain in the
superiority of their own effort and a little more empathetic of those who’ve
had less opportunity. If you don't know what I'm talking about, consult the Bible.

I
don’t want my peers to apologize for their success or their peaceful, safe
communities. I simply want them to broaden their view and acknowledge the
obvious truths of American history and the affirmative action program people
like us had.

There
“but for the grace of God” I went, lucky that my grandparents were born white
in early 20th Century America rather than black.

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About Me

The Contrarian's work has appeared in the Noblesville Daily Ledger, The Noblesville Times, NUVO Newsweekly, The Indianapolis Eye (web-based), The Noblesville Current, and at www.dailyyonder.com. He is the co-founder of the literary journal, the Polk Street Review, where his stories also appear. His novel, Stardust was published in 2002 and has just been republished again under the title "Noblesville," by River's Edge Media. His 2nd novel, The Salvage Man, was released August of 2015 by River's Edge. Kurt is a former school teacher and a Realtor.